Remo held his breath as Chiun studied his face for signs of insincerity.
"And I suppose you will be allowed to ascend the heavens, stilt-legged one?" Chiun asked at length.
"I'm not planning to go into orbit, Chiun. Honest."
"The Chinese promised that I would be the first Korean into space when I was last in China."
"They were trying to launch you into the Void, Chiun. You know that. They wanted you dead. They figured a fast ride on an ICBM would be the quickest way to get rid of you."
"The Chinese know I work for America now. As do the Russians. As do many of this nation's mortal enemies."
"Yeah. So what? They don't know about CURE or Smith or even me."
"If the nations of this world know this, it cannot be the nations of this world who are attacking the New Rome. Fear of Sinanju wrath would stay their treacherous hand. Therefore, it can only be the work of a nation from some other world."
"Let's leave the Martians out of this. Come on. Let's just go, if you're going."
"I am going," Chiun said firmly.
"No steamer trunks this time."
"I will not pack for the voyage into space until I have been formally invited," Chiun sniffed. "I have my pride."
"Good. I don't suppose you still have that threepiece suit from a few years back when you were on your last Western kick?"
"Will wearing such a garment increase my opportunities for travel beyond this world?"
"Can't hurt," said Remo.
"Then prepare the scarlet chariot. I will join you."
Grinning, Remo went downstairs to wake up the chariot.
It was Harold Smith's latest attempt to fulfill a contractual obligation Remo had insisted upon. He needed a vehicle that was equal to Boston traffic and capable of being sideswiped, rear-ended and otherwise abused by insane Boston drivers. And it had to be red.
The last chariot, an armored personnel carrier, had been APC-jacked. The replacement was a little more down-market, but Remo had decided it would do. After all, if the Humvee was good enough for Arnold Schwarzenegger, it was good enough for Remo Williams.
The engine turned over without any trouble despite the subzero temperature.
The Master of Sinanju floated out of the condocastle a moment later, wearing a severe black threepiece suit that was ordinary in every way except the tailor had widened the sleeves so that they flapped like bell-bottom pant legs.
This sartorial compromise enabled the Master of Sinanju to conceal his hands in his sleeves, hiding the shame of his maimed fingernail from an uncaring world.
Chiun took the passenger seat, and Remo backed out, the Humvee engine surging powerfully.
It was night and the Southeast Expressway was all but deserted. They took the new Ted Williams Tunnel to Logan International Airport, parked and grabbed the first flight to Orlando, Florida. Which turned out to be the last flight of the night.
It wasn't empty, but the stewardesses outnumbered the passengers by half. Remo, realizing they would probably fill the idle flying hours by trying to sit on his lap all at once, told the Master of Sinanju, "Tell them I'm in a coma."
"You are not."
"I didn't say I was. Just fib for me."
"I will tell my own lies, not yours," Chiun snapped.
"Just so long as I get to sleep the flight away, undisturbed," said Remo, slapping a pillow behind his head and nodding off without further ado.
The first stewardess to check on their aisle after the 747 vaulted into the night sky was told, "Do not bother. He is gay."
"He does look kinda gay."
"He is very gay."
"Damn."
The second stewardess came up and said, "When he wakes up, will you let me know?"
"Why?" asked Chiun.
"Because I have a thing for gay guys."
"He is also VIP positive."
"He's famous?"
"He is diseased."
"Double rubbers. They work for me. Tell him, okay?"
"Of course."
The third stewardess came up, took one look at Remo and lamented, "Why are all the good ones married or gay?"
"Because they cannot be both," replied the Master of Sinanju.
The braking of the wheels touching tarmac triggered Remo's waking reflexes, and he looked out the window at the blue runway lights speeding by.
"We're there?" he asked Chiun.
"Yes."
"Any problem with the stewardesses?"
"I told the first that you were very happy, the second that you were a VIP and not to be disturbed under any circumstances, and the third expressed regret that you were married."
"You told her that I was married?"
"No, it was her idea," said Chiun blandly. "I merely did not contradict her mistaken impression."
"Nice going, Little Father. I owe you one."
"And I will collect in a time and place of my own choosing."
As they left the plane, the flight attendants said their goodbyes, insisting on shaking Remo's hands warmly, and Remo accepted because they had been good enough to leave him alone.
Once in the terminal, he opened his fist to check the folded papers they had surreptitiously slipped him, thinking they were the usual hastily scribbled phone numbers.
"Why did all three give me AIDS-prevention pamphlets?" Remo wondered aloud, tossing them into the nearest trash can.
"Perhaps they recognize you for the promiscuous rake that you are."
"I'm the reverse of promiscuous."
"If you fall into the foul habit of dating women, promiscuity will be your epitaph."
"You sure you didn't put them up to this?"
"Lust kills," sniffed Chiun. "Remember this as you sow your wild goats."
"It's 'wild oats.' And stop trying to get my goat."
"Do not complain to me if your voracious goat consumes all of your wild oats and you have none left when you are my age."
Chapter 15
Sometimes Radomir Eduardovitch Rushenko forgot himself. It was very easy to forget. Just as it was very difficult to fully lose the old Red ways.
Rushenko parked his dull black Volga automobile within sight of Iz Tsvetoka's modest tailor shop on Tverskaya Street, not far from the hideous yellow double arches of the most popular McDonald's restaurant in the heart of gray Moscow. It was very gray now, with the heavily overcast skies like lead and the freshening smell of snow coming out of Siberia.
The bell over the door tinkled as Rushenko stepped down from the sidewalk to the sunken establishment.
The balding, fuzzy-haired tailor did not look up from pressing a pair of trousers until Rushenko said, "Good morning, tovaritch."
"I am not your comrade," the tailor said harshly.
"Excuse me. I meant, good morning, sudar. "
The tailor nodded, satisfied.
Rushenko laid his suit on the counter and said, "It requires special attention."
The tailor gestured to the fitting room. Rushenko stepped inside, drew closed the red curtain and, just as the surly tailor made his pants presser spurt steam, Rushenko gave a coat hook a certain twist.
The rear panel of the fitting room pivoted on a middle hinge, and Rushenko quickly stepped back. The panel finished its revolution, and it was as if he had stepped off the face of the earth instead of entering the bowels of the most secret security organization in Russian history.
There had been at one time the Czarist secret police. Then the Cheka. Then VCheka. After that OGPU, NKVD, NKGB, MVD and KGB. Now there was the FSK, a toothless organization good for nothing more than wardening the old KGB files and taking horrific casualties in Chechnya.
The best and brightest of the old KGB, having no stomach for detente, perestroika, glasnost and the cold consequences of these failed policies, had banded together to form a clandestine ministry that was responsible to no one in the sickeningly democratized Kremlin. Until the red-letter day Soviet rule would be restored, they would operate in secret, overseeing, manipulating and protecting Mother Russia from its deadliest enemies-which in these days was itself, and its drunken, incompetent leaders.